


Party Boys Don't Get Hurt

by Tarosya



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Gen, Hospitals, Mental Instability, Missing Scene, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Insert, Social Issues, Underage Drug Use, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28500768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarosya/pseuds/Tarosya
Summary: The smell of human grief gets particularly stronger in the hospital at night.“...You are at the Advocate Medical Center Crisis Rape Center. My name is Tanya. I am a social worker, and I will accompany you until your discharge... An ambulance picked you up from the street, in the Boystown area. You were lying unconscious on the sidewalk, near the Fairy Tail nightclub; no outerwear, no pants, nor underwear… Curtis? That's your name, isn't it?""My name is Ian Gallagher."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Original Character(s), Ian Gallagher & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. 2014

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Party Boys Don't Get Hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301111) by [Tarosya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarosya/pseuds/Tarosya). 



> What other tragedy could have happened to Ian in the darkest period of his life, if Mickey hadn't been so stubborn and his feeling so strong?  
> 1\. There are no graphic description of rape in this fanfic, but there is a graphic description of the work the Crisis Center for Assistance to Sexual Assault Victims performs.  
> 2\. Fanfic descriptions are based in part on actual protocols but practices may vary.  
> 3\. Advocate Illinois Masonic Medical Center and Resilience are real institutions working in Chicago, but it is most likely that their structure and activities differ in reality from those described by the author.  
> 4\. Tanya, the Social Worker character, is based on the personality and experience of the author.  
> 5\. All other original characters are a figment of the author's imagination and similarities with any real people or characters from other fandoms is simply a coincidence.
> 
> Atmosphere artwork by [luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/638045091471212544/art-commission-for-tarosya-illustrating-her)
> 
> Big thanks to Victoria, Michelle, and Kat for willingness to help!  
> And especially to [peppermintkatie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintkatie/pseuds/peppermintkatie) for help and support!

[ ](https://imgbb.com/)

_Party ~~girls~~ boys don't get hurt  
Can't feel anything, when will I learn  
I push it down, push it down  
I'm the one "for a good time call"  
Phone's blowin' up, they're ringin' my doorbell  
I feel the love, feel the love  
One, two, three, one, two, three, drink  
One, two, three, one, two, three, drink  
One, two, three, one, two, three, drink  
Throw 'em back, till I lose count  
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier  
I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist  
Like it doesn't exist  
I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry  
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier  
And I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes  
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight  
Help me, I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes  
Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I'm just holding on for tonight  
Sun is up, I'm a mess  
Gotta get out now, gotta run from this  
Here comes the shame, here comes the shame… © _

The smell of human grief gets particularly stronger in the hospital at night. 

“Social worker Tanya! Social worker Tanya! Urgently approach the patient with code 4! Urgently approach the patient with code 4 [1]!” 

My patient was at the far end of the emergency room. The nurse near his bed, whose name I didn’t even remember, showed me with a gesture that the patient had finally woken up, and was at my disposal. 

He was covered with two blankets. A nearby portable conditioner drove warm air through a wide elastic tube that goes under the blankets. An ambulance had brought him from the street, where they had found him half-naked and passed out. Ironically, it was the narcotic hyperthermia that kept him alive. The laboratory found traces of cocaine, GHB, and MDMA in his blood samples. He spent a couple of hours unconscious, got IVs, and a heart rate monitor.

"My name is Tanya. I am a social worker. What's your name?" 

He carried no documents with him, and we did not know neither his name, nor his age. He was hardly an adult. Or maybe he seemed like a teenager because of the lifeless, painful complexion and touching freckles that stood out brighter on his pale skin. 

He blinked frequently, squinting at the bright hospital lamps.

"Curtis," he whispered, barely audibly, hoarsely, while licking his parched lips. 

"Nice to meet you, Curtis! You are at the Advocate Medical Center, and I will accompany you until your discharge. Do you want me to call someone? Who should I tell that you are here?" I asked. 

“No," he coughed and winced. "No need. There is no one to call..."

Even an adult may be scared to wake up alone in the hospital, let alone a teenager, especially one who had no one close to call for help. 

"I will be with you throughout your stay, and I will not leave your side until you leave the hospital on your own," I said. 

Anyone in his place would be devoured by a terrible feeling of loneliness. The only thing that could help in some way was trying to make him understand that he was not alone.

"Do you think you can get up, so we can move to a more comfortable isolated place? Or will you lie still?"

"I'll lie down…" He pulled the blanket almost up to his nose, wrapping himself more tightly in it.

"Do you know why you are here? Do you remember what happened?"

He only shook his head as a response. 

"I'll tell you what I know, and you will try to add to the story, okay? So that, we know how to best help you." Without waiting for his answer, I continued, "You were brought here a few hours ago. An ambulance picked you up from the street, in the Boystown area. The protocol says they were called by a passer-by. You were lying unconscious on the sidewalk, near the Fairy Tail nightclub; no outerwear, no pants, nor underwear…"

Curtis fidgeted restlessly under the covers, apparently checking if he was dressed. And as if answering his unspoken question, I continued, "When you were found, your pants and underwear were lowered to your ankles. Therefore, the EMTs had a suspicion that you could have been sexually assaulted.” 

The fact that the ambulance's documents listed our hospital Crisis Rape Center as their destination made the event even more tragic. 

Telling a person they had been raped is evil work. But it was easier for me to present the matter as if this assumption came exclusively from the EMTs, and I was only testing it. 

Curtis had previously looked somewhere over my right shoulder. He had now dropped his gaze, staring at the hospital blanket. Helplessness and irresponsibility are the worst enemies in such moments, and it was necessary to focus his attention on some simple questions in order not to let him go into himself. But the faded curtain, which I tried to completely close, trying to ensure minimal privacy, moved aside with a nasty creak, letting Curtis see two people wearing police uniforms head toward us. 

"I am Officer Gomez. This is my partner Officer Krupa." Without asking me to introduce myself, he glanced at my badge, and wrote down my name in his notepad — and I was pretty sure he wrote it down with mistakes. 

"What's your name, boy?" 

“Curtis.” 

"And the last name? Social Security number?"

Curtis didn't answer.

“Okay…" Officer Gomez hid his notepad in his pocket, and twirled the tip of his mustache. It was so lush that any cartoon villain from an old western would envy it. 

"We were at the crime scene. Looks like something bad happened. Has anyone offended you, Curtis? Did someone attack you?" 

“I remember nothing." The same gaze into the blanket. 

"We asked there... People say you often visit the Fairy Tail club. Do you work there? Are you involved in prostitution?"

I would be lying if I said the same idea never occurred to me. This kid looked bad. What could he do at an adult club at night? Plus, his blood samples were like a chapter from a drug addiction textbook. And he had a palette of hickeys on his neck – I saw them until he wrapped himself into a blanket. Throughout the long hours he had already managed to spend in the emergency room, no one had been looking for him. But still, the dispassion of the policeman's question hurt me. 

"I just was looking for a good time…," Curtis replied. 

"There were drugs found in your blood samples. Do you use? Sell your body for drugs?" 

"I was treated to…"

Curtis had barely woken up, and was still poorly thinking. But he did not make contact with the police quite skillfully, and somehow intuitively. This fact only strengthened my opinion that there was a teenager from a risk group in front of me. 

"Listen, Curtis, or whatever your real name is…," Officer Krupa intervened. He looked like a real donut lover. "We know you work for Fairy Tail! What are they making you do? Have sex with clients? Do they give you drugs? Or do you buy with the money you earn? Who do you take it from?"

"I don't…"

"Don't protect them, boy! Not after what they did. They drugged you, and put you under some kind of perverts!" 

Perhaps the officer was not far from the truth. But Curtis, for the first time since I walked to his bunk, gazed up at me, looking straight into my eyes, frightened, like a deer looks at a car's headlights. And if I'm here to help someone, it's not the police.

"The patient is underage, Officers. You cannot question him without a parent or guardian."

"How old are you, boy?"

"17 years and nine months old."

"And where are his parents? Shouldn't they be here by law?" Officer Krupa turned to me. 

There is a very juicy Russian saying for such kind of police shakedown in the place where I grew up. But I wasn’t going to let the cops outsmart me. 

"According to the law, in case of suspicion of rape, the hospital has a right to provide the patient's with necessary medical care without notifying his parents or guardians, if this is the patient's request. In any case, a representative of the Resilience organization is already coming here. The patient will be able to press charges in the manner prescribed by law later with their help. Thank you for your service, Officers!"

“I want to get out of here,” Curtis said quietly, as soon as the police officers left, without saying goodbye. 

I called a nurse and an orderly, although I understood this was not what Curtis meant at all. They helped him into an office, in an inconspicuous corner at the end of a long corridor, with a large number "4" on the door. 

"Sit in that chair, it's the most comfortable one." Curtis was swaying. He headed toward the indicated chair, caught his feet on the carpet on the floor and almost fell, but leaned on the round table in the middle of the office. 

"Hey, be careful!" I threw his medical folder on the table, and rushed to pick him up. I held him with one hand, and tried to pull the nearest chair toward him. "Come on, sit down!" 

But Curtis remained standing, staring at his feet. He had just noticed that one of his feet was bare.

"Where's my Converse?"

"I don’t know. We did not find it." 

The second Converse was not near the bed, nor in the bag along with his personal belongings. Actually, there was no package with Curtis’ personal belongings at all. 

"I lost my Converse…," Curtis muttered childishly.

"Do not worry. Let's find you other shoes! We get a lot of cool things as gifts." Of course, the donations we received couldn’t be called cool, but compared to Curtis' torn green tank and his cheap, dirty jeans, they were quite good.

"Come on, sit down!"

Curtis nodded. But instead of sitting down in the suggested chair, he walked around the table, holding onto the countertop, and sat down in a comfortable armchair. His jaw tightened; it was clear that this movement hurt him. He continued to pursue his lips tightly, and shifted in the armchair, getting himself comfortable. I handed him the blanket that had fallen onto the floor, and he folded it in a lump on his lap, and hugged him instead of sheltering.

"What do you have here?" his gaze swept across the room.

We tried to avoid the formal hospital spirit in this place: a round table in the middle with chairs around, carpet on the floor, paintings on the walls, and a kitchenette with a refrigerator.

“This is the Sexual Assault Crisis Center.” 

Curtis said nothing. 

The comfortable chair in which we invited the victims to sit did not just stand where it was. It was turned with its back to the examination room. Through its open door, a gynecological chair could be seen. Curtis kept turning and looking around, trying to see what was there. 

"There's an observation deck," I said.

"And I will need to go there…"

"Not necessarily.” There was no need to scare him, it is better to advance step by step. 

And as if he was hearing my thoughts, he said, "I was not raped!" 

"We don't know that. You were passed out, and someone pulled your pants down. And I can see you definitely feel pain. Anything could have happened. I can invite Forensic M.D. This is a special doctor who does not treat, but only collects evidence: traces of DNA, for example, or traces of beatings... He usually comes specifically from the Institute of Forensic Medicine, just like in the CSI series. He is the only one who can say what happened, and whatnot." 

I twisted my soul a little, because if this guy practices anal sex and was relaxed because of drugs, and the rapist used a condom, the chances to say something unambiguously were small.

"Fuck! I am not interested!"

"This is for today, for now... But after? After a few months? Or years? The doctor can pack all the evidence in a special kit, and it is kept at the Institute of Forensic Medicine in case, one day, you decide to file a report with the police, even after several years…" 

“Okay! Otherwise you just won't get off, will you? All right!” 

“All right!” I repeated after him. “We have clarified this issue. There is one more thing though. I told the police that a lawyer from Resilience was coming here. This is an organization that provides legal assistance to victims of sexual assault. But no one is really coming here yet, and I need to call them."

"Damn... Why is this?!" 

As they say in the movies, I only had one shot. And if I missed, the spark of trust that had appeared would immediately vanish. 

"First, Resilience will give you a voucher that will cover the cost of your current hospital stay, and all medical expenses three months in advance, including medicines and such kind of things."

"What medicines?"

"Look, we don't know what happened. We don't know if you've had sex... Unprotected sex? You do not remember. And if he is sick? You may need antibiotics for prophylaxis, and PEP... It costs a lot of money…"

Curtis covered his face with his hands, pressing the pads of his palms tightly on his eyes, and spreading his fingers in the air. 

"OK! OK…"

"And one more thing…"

"I said, OK!" 

"Listen for a second. Do you remember what the cops said? They will not get off you, and they will twist you. They were interested in that nightclub. You need someone who knows the law and can protect you. Really protect you." 

"I'm not a prostitute!" Curtis looked sullenly, defiantly, and angrily, only his lower lip trembled almost childishly. "I only dance in that club. Sometimes, I am behind the bar. Nothing more. I'm not a prostitute!"

A nightclub for adults is not a place that should have allowed a minor to work. The boy would not be allowed on the threshold. The police will grip this place with a stranglehold, and Curtis will be between employers and cops, as between millstones. But I told him something completely different.

"Whatever you do, no one has the right to do something with you against your will.” He should have just heard that no one here condemns him. "Do you see what I mean?” he nodded. "Curtis? That's your name, isn't it?" I remembered what Officer Krupa said.

"I already told you!" 

“I just don’t want to call you like all those dudes in your club." 

He knitted his eyebrows, suddenly making him look older. After hesitating for a few seconds, he finally said, 

"My name is Ian Gallagher."

"Ian? Beautiful name. And it suits you. Nice to meet you, Ian!" 

When I returned from the staff's kitchen with Ian's sandwiches, I found an empty room. And then, I scolded myself for leaving him alone. I was absent no more than ten minutes; the kitchen was very close, but fresh portions for the night shift had just been brought in, and ED workers, who were not too busy, literally lined up. The young cleaning lady, who had a tattoo shaped like an African dark wood statuette clearly visible even under the hospital uniform, gave me a disapproving look when she saw me take two sandwiches. But when I shrugged my shoulders and replied that my shift lasted a whole 24 hours, she almost forced a third one onto my hands. 

If Ian had run away, he could not have gone far, much less with only one shoe on. Running out through the long hospital corridor, I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw him, wrapped in a blanket, walking from the other end, limping on his barefoot, and holding onto the wall. 

“Fuck! I was dying for a smoke! Bummed a cigarette from visitors in the parking," Ian answered my unasked question. "Did you think I ran away?" There was sparkled mischief in his eyes that did not fit the situation. 

“You were still connected to the monitor less than half an hour ago," I was not going to admit that I really thought so. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh? Okay…" Entering the room, Ian immediately went to his armchair, and sat down. "Oh, sandwiches!" He grabbed one of the three sandwiches that were lying on the table, and without even asking what it was made of, quickly ripped off the cellophane wrapper, and dug into it with his teeth. "I don't remember the last time I ate!" he said with a full mouth.

"Yesterday, I guess…” 

“I don't remember…," Ian finished the sandwich in just a few bites. “You can't eat before work, because…” 

He suddenly fell silent, and covered his mouth with his hand. Getting up from the armchair in just one jump, he found himself at the urn, only had time to open the lid, and vomited. 

"What an ugly picture!" Ian did not hurry to return to his armchair. Instead, he remained seated on the floor, by the urn, wiping his protruding tears with the back of his hand, clutching the wet napkin I gave him in his fist. And he was right, the picture was ugly. 

״Some donator's present to us. Sometimes, various philanthropists give us worthwhile things, like a coffee machine – this donated miracle of kitchen technology was gathering dust on the counter idle since no one thought of giving capsules along with the machine – or clothes for patients. But sometimes, they give such pictures.״

I was interrupted by a knock on the door. When I opened it, I saw forensic scientist Dr. Ricardo Liebre. 

"Glad to see you, as always!" said the doctor with a strong Argentinian accent, while bending over to kiss me on the cheek. “Where I was born, it is customary to kiss when saying hello,” he told me when we first met, before he asked for my consent. I wasn’t against meeting kiss. This meant a kind of cooperation agreement, as now, we could not let each other down. 

At any time of the day or night, Dr. Liebre invariably appeared in an elegant classic suit, ironed to a crisp shirt and tie. He had a jet-black hair-to-hair hairstyle, only in a long, fashionable forelock, there was one gray strand. 

Dr. Liebre entered the room, put his leather briefcase down on the table, and began to reach for the necessary forms inside of it. He tactfully ignored the fact that the patient was sitting on the floor, and not where he should.

Laying the miniature voice recorder over the documents, Dr. Liebre turned to Ian, 

"Young man, is this your natural hair color?"

One of Dr. Liebre's characteristics was a phenomenally intuitive ability to break the ice from the first sentence, and to find an approach toward absolutely any patient. I saw him work with both a six-year-old boy who was sexually abused by a twelve-year-old neighbor, and with a seventy-year-old lady who complained about a nurse in a nursing home. 

"What?" Ian perplexedly blinked.

"It's a simple question."

"Ah… well, yes…" At the beginning of the previous evening, Ian's red hair was probably fashionably styled, but now, the naughty strands crumpled on one side, and he was trying to smooth them with his spread fingers, shaking off the lumps of dirt entangled in them. 

"Perfect!" Dr. Liebre sat down, moving the chair, so that he was at the direct opposite of the comfortable chair for patients. 

"Come on, sit in your armchair, Ian." I was still standing, letting the doctor first choose and take a suitable place. "Do you need some help?" 

But Ian got up without my help. He independently rose to his feet with one springy movement, barely wincing in pain, but theatrically tilting his head so as to hide it, and took a few steps toward his chair, obviously swinging his hip. 

I sat down on the right of the doctor, between the corner table with the telephone and the door. 

"My name is Dr. Ricardo Liebre, and I am working for the Institute of Forensic Science," Dr. Liebre introduced himself. "I have to say right away, I do not work for the police, and I do not conduct interrogations. But I will ask you a solid amount of questions, and their answers are important for me to carry out the necessary physiological checks as well as possible. I do not intend to make any assessment of the circumstances that brought you here. The inspection is carried out exclusively with your written permission, and can be interrupted at any time per your request. Do you have any questions or requests?"

Ian shrugged vaguely.

"Then, let's start! If anything arises throughout the process, do not hesitate to voice it!" 

Contrary to my fears, Ian immediately talked to Dr. Liebre. He gave his real name, and social security number, which the doctor wrote down on the form.

"Are you recording?" Ian pointed to the recorder.

"Not now. Only during the inspection, when there is no opportunity to write, and nothing can be forgotten nor missed. No one will hear the recordings except me."

"They are afraid that I was raped. And you kind of look... Tell me, was I or not?"

"Have you been raped?"

"No!" 

"Then, why are you here?" 

"Passed out near the club…"

"How did it happen?" 

"It seems like I was high…" 

"And were you? Have you taken anything this evening?"

"Probably... I was kind of treated to all sorts of party favors…"

"Tell me in details about yesterday evening. What do you remember?"

"Well, I went to the club for the opening…"

"What club are you talking about?"

"Fairy Tail, in Boystown. Have you ever been there?"

"I haven't."

"You have to come! It’s a cool place! The dancers are just gorgeous!"

"And what about you?" 

"Yes, I dance! Sometimes, I am behind the bar. But today, I was dancing…"

"And after you left, do you remember anything?"

"My shift was until 10 p.m.…"

"But you don't remember how you left?"

"Nope…" 

"What do you remember?"

"Nothing special. It was a shift like always... There were several regulars." Visibly relaxing, Ian began to gesture with his hands in the air, in tune with the conversation. "One of them had nice pills. He gave me a treat, I remember this."

"Is it possible someone gave you something without your knowing?" 

"Oh, no… Guests usually treat me when I dance, like instead of a tip. Well, they also give me money. Ah, I remembered! I was kind of sniffing in the bathroom with another dude, but I don't remember that much."

"Did you drink alcohol?" 

"Uh! The booze we have is fucking expensive! And the club doesn't pour it for workers for free! Only if some guest treats us... But tonight, it seems like it was not the case. I only remember the pills."

"Maybe you remember someone who showed obsessive attention?"

"Well, this is a gay club! Everyone comes there for this! Private dances are ordered. Guests ask for a blowjob, sorry…" Ian dropped his gaze, as if he was really embarrassed, "or something else. But I'm not fooled! Sometimes, guests invite me to their place after my shift." 

"And what about yesterday?” 

"Exactly! There was one dude who did invite me to come over. He was dressed expensively. He said his house was full of party favors, anything I wanted…” 

"Do you know anything about him?" 

"I had seen him a couple of times before... He left with the other guys. They did not complain later. He is, you know, an old kind dude!" 

"Old like I am?"

"Like she is!" Ian pointed a finger at me. "Sorry, sorry! I did not mean it like that! He just has white and short hair too! Sorry, sorry!" 

Throughout the conversation, I had the impression that Ian had taken up his mind to flirt with Dr. Liebre. This was not surprising. And not only because Ian was definitely gay, and Ricardo was an attractive man, but because I have already seen how teenagers like Ian, from the sidelines of society, no matter their gender, try to appease those in power. And Ian was ready to use the only thing that was at his disposal — himself. 

Ian didn't flirt with me. He probably felt like he had already received the maximum credit of sympathy from me, even without that. He really had a kind of captivating way to move people that was not at all compatible with his lifestyle. Sure, colleagues will laugh at the staff meeting, saying that it's all about my weakness for red-haired guys. And my supervisor will probably suggest that a teenager from a gay nightclub is simply obliged to be equally able to understand people and manipulate. But I grew up not far from the sidelines of society, and before this hospital, I probably managed to see more than our supervisor with her academic career. 

Ian looked genuinely upset that he had inadvertently been rude to me, and was still apologizing when he was interrupted by a Resilience representative knocking on the door. 

She introduced herself as a lawyer, Miss Rose Rothschild. Because of her short stature and fragile body shape, she looked a little older than Ian. She was dressed simply to match the nighttime — jeans, and a smooth pullover. But I noticed branded leather oxfords and a cashmere coat. Given her young age, Ms. Rothschild was definitely at the beginning of her career, because who else would be sent to the hospital in the middle of the night to see a dubious patient? Probably out of inexperience, she immediately wrote Ian a voucher. There was no need for him to continue to cooperate now. He could just leave right now, find a doctor who was not burdened with a conscience, and get his prescriptions for three months for buying any pleasant pills with his voucher.

But so far, Ian has not refused to cooperate. He let Dr. Liebre tell the lawyer what he had learned. Meanwhile, has was leaning back in his armchair, and throwing his head back. Rose Rothschild wrote everything down, trying not to miss a single word, biting the tip of her tongue with concentration. Dr. Liebre repeated patiently several times, as she asked again.

"The young man does not remember the act of his sexual assault, perhaps because of drugs." Ian tried to sit up straight again, but shifting in his armchair, leaning forward.

"Are you in pain? I think so, because of your posture.”

"My ass hurts!" 

"Is it possible that you had anal sex with consent?" 

“I'm a top!” Ian pursed his lips in resentment, "I never bottom!" 

Dr. Liebre didn't comment on this attack, and suggested to start the examination.

"Come here." I led Ian into the examination room, and showed him the door to the bathroom. "Take all your clothes off, and put them here," I said while handing him several large paper bags. 

"Usually, I am asked to undress otherwise!" Ian threw his head high, and looked straight into my eyes.

“I have no doubt.” I just couldn't look away; I should hold his gaze. “And put on this fancy thing,” I told Ian while handing him a hospital gown. "Ties back." 

"Wow! There's a shower!" Ian exclaimed, heading toward the bathroom. "Can I take a shower?" 

"No!" I shouted. It could be really bad if he washed away all possible evidence. "I mean, yes, you can take a shower, but after all the inspections."

While Ian was changing behind a closed door, I took out a rape kit behind a locked cabinet, put it on a gynecological chair, and prepared it for the doctor.  
Dr. Liebre then entered the examination room, barely hearing Ian leave the closet, and locked the door behind himself, leaving Rose Rothschild alone in another room.

"First of all, young man, fill this test tube with saliva up to the mark. This is your DNA sample for comparison." While Ian was spitting in the test tube, Dr. Liebre took out the oral mucosa scoop from the container. 

"Perhaps you had consented oral sex last night?"

"I had! No, I didn't… Actually, I didn't suck… I just let someone suck mine..."

"Open your mouth, please!" The doctor smeared a scoop on the inside of his cheek. "Wait, don't close!" He stopped Ian when he almost shut his mouth as soon as the doctor took out the scoop.

"I need to take a smear from the second cheek too.” 

After packing the scoop into an airtight bag, Dr. Liebre asked Ian to move closer to the chair under the lamps.

"And what do I need to do? Climb on this lady’s chair?" 

"Yes. But this is a transforming chair, and we'll put it on the medical couch later. Until then, stand here, where the best light is, so that I can examine the external damage. I inform you that I am starting to record." Turning on the recorder, Dr. Liebre said, "date: February 27, 2014. Time: 2:38. Patient: Ian Gallagher." 

Pulling back the collar of Ian's hospital gown, Dr. Liebre described — aloud, to record — the bruises on his neck, measuring the freshest, burgundy ones with a ruler, and photographing them from different angles. 

"Now, pull your gown down your shoulders, please." 

"Will she be here the whole time?" Ian asked, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb.

I was standing behind him, near the desk. 

“Yes,” I replied, although the question was not addressed to me. “According to the rules, I must be present. But we have a screen…”

Without waiting for me to bring the screen from the other corner of the room, Ian pulled the robe forward and shrugged it off. Although Dr. Liebre only asked him to bare his shoulders, Ian took off his gown altogether, letting it fall onto the floor with a lump of clothes, and now stood naked, not even trying to hide. Finally, I brought the screen. Its old wheels refused to turn, so I just tore it off the floor and moved it, and placed it between Ian and me. 

"You are not going to watch, are you?" Ian turned to me. 

As he said that, some sparks of mischief appeared and disappeared in his eyes, like fireflies in the night. He seemed to be spinning on an emotional carousel. Either the narcotic cocktail, which he had managed to consume over the past evening, was still active, or, which is much more frightening, he showed signs of mental illness. It could be very helpful to invite a psychiatrist, but I had nothing to justify such an invitation, except for my vague conjectures. Ian did not show any signs of psychosis; he answered questions relevantly, albeit sometimes reluctantly, and generally behaved quite adequately by circumstances. 

"The doctor will tell me everything later." 

Before detaching Ian with the screen, I managed to notice a scattering of fresh purple bruises, as small as fingerprints. They were located on his thighs, buttocks, waist, intertwined with the blue lines of a tattoo on his hip depicting a gun and something else with a military theme that I could not see. Looks like Ian was a fan of military-style. 

Dr. Liebre previously sprinkled cotton swabs with distilled water, and gently passed them over Ian's skin, where he expected the rapist could leave traces of his DNA, and continued to photograph and measure, while dictating monotonous descriptions to the recorder.

“There is a fresh petechiae bruise, half an inch above the left nipple, and about an inch in diameter. The scratch is one and a half inches long, a quarter of an inch wide. Fresh, no more than a few hours old. Does not bleed. Located on the right shoulder…” 

Throughout our professional experience with Dr. Liebre, we encountered many very different cases, but even we did not often meet manifestations of such sadistic cruelty. The rapist who did this to Ian tortured him, deliberately hurt the completely helpless boy, although he could not offer any slightest resistance, being almost completely passed out. The thought of it made me feel so bad that I could even feel a metallic taste in my mouth. I knew that Dr. Liebre felt the same at this moment. It was even harder for him, because now, he was looking at Ian's eyes. 

Ian was still standing with his back turned to me, but now turned his rear to Dr. Liebre. I tried to catch his gaze, but Ian looked away, glancing at everything in the room except me. He closely examined the smudges on the ceiling from a long-standing leak, with so much attention, as if he was guessing on coffee grounds.

"And now, young man, I am asking you to lie down." Dr. Liebre pressed a button, lowered the head of the examination chair, and turned it into a flat couch.

Without a word, Ian lowered himself onto the couch, picking up the abandoned down from the floor and covering his groin. 

“Turn on the side, please. Face toward the door." The doctor took out a memory card from his camera, and moved it to the colposcope [2], rolling it from the couch footboard, and placing it by the side, near the wall.

"Tanya, invite a surgeon, please. And ask not to forget the rectoscope [3]." 

I was worried that our surgeon Dr. Han, nicknamed Han Solo behind her back, was on duty today. It was no secret that surgeons did not like cases of sexual assaults, but Han Solo never refused one, and even used to volunteer. However, she was so negligent in keeping notes, and some gossips said cases she was involved in had failed. But instead of her, Dr. Billy the Kid came in. I did not remember his real last name. His first name really was Bill, but his colleagues nicknamed him "the Kid" in honor of the famous bandit for small, no longer teenage palms. Dr. Billy the Kid brought the rectoscope without further ado.

"There are several cracks around the circumference of the anus. At eleven o'clock, two o'clock, and seven o’clock," Dr. Liebre continued to record his professional observations on a tape recorder, while Dr. Billy the Kid just stood next to him, and by his request occasionally pressed the button of the camera built into the colposcope. 

To get to the same eye level as Ian, I squatted at the headboard of the bunk.  
"I need to take a swab for traces of DNA from the inside. With a cotton swab. It can be unpleasant, but it shouldn't hurt. Are you ready?" Ian nodded, frowning. But Dr. Liebre did not see it, "Mr. Gallagher?" 

"Okay…"

"Then, let's get started! If you feel any pain, speak up right away." But Ian said nothing. He just looked grim, without blinking. I saw his face get frozen, and his tightly clenched jaw stiffen, while his Adam's apple twitched under the pale skin of his neck. 

Ian remained silent, and when Dr. Billy the Kid used the rectoscope, it was much more painful than a cotton swab. 

“An abrasive scratch on the mucous membrane at a depth of one and a half to two inches,” Dr. Liebre said to the recorder, looking at the medical device's screen.

I saw a lonely tear come out in the corner of Ian’s eye, and rolling down the bridge of his nose, before falling into a speck on the hospital sheet. I put my hand on the bunk, where he rested his. Ian understood my gesture, and squeezed my fingers between his. 

Just when Dr. Billy the Kid had finished, Ian whispered hoarsely, “It hurts…” 

“I know… You were doing well! You are very strong, Ian! It's already over."

I was sure that not only physical pain was tormenting Ian, but also the awareness that the worst thing, which he denied, barely waking up in a hospital bed, had actually happened. He did not remember the attack itself, but this examination will remain a traumatic memory for a long time. And this cruel irony didn’t make any sense.

“Young man, I would like to invite Miss Rothschild to come in. Do you mind?"

"Okay…"

“Tanya, will you please invite Miss Rothschild?" I tried to rise from my haunches, but Ian had not released my hand yet. And then, realizing that he was still holding me, he lifted his eyebrows touchingly, and unclenched his palm. 

I understood what Dr. Liebre was doing. Ian was a lonely poor guy with no one to protect him. The police were only interested in the testimony he could give against the club. If he would nevertheless decide to press charges, then along the way of his case to court, and even in court, there would be people saying that Ian brought trouble on himself. But Miss Rothschild should never be among them. She looked like she never experienced destitution, and she won't understand why Ian experienced what he did. But she shouldn't have had a shadow of a doubt that the tragedy that happened to Ian was reliable. If anyone could stand up for Ian, then it was only Resilience, and Rose Rothschild herself. Before she left, I should inform her about what had happened during the police officers' visit. 

Entering the examination room, Ms. Rothschild went straight to Dr. Liebre, walking around the headboard of the couch. I honestly didn't like it. It's one thing to be on the lookout, but it's quite another to see what the doctors see. But neither Dr. Liebre, nor Ian himself made any comments to her, so I decided to remain silent as well. 

“You can get my full report with the written consent of the patient,” said Dr. Liebre. "In the meantime, I want to tell you a couple of things. First, we found numerous superficial injuries, such as hematomas. Besides, my colleague and I," Dr. Liebre pointed to Dr. Billy the Kid, it seems like he did not remember his real name either, “can say the patient has not practiced anal sex before. And in my professional opinion, he was sexually assaulted within the last hours." 

Miss Rothschild could see no more than I already saw, only bruises and abrasions, but I noticed she turned pale. 

“Now, let's give the patient privacy to get dressed," said Dr. Liebre, making it clear that Ms. Rothschild could go.

“Yes, of course!” she slowly said. "I'll write everything down.” She had made a few steps toward the door and had begun to settle down slowly, when she suddenly fell unconscious, hitting the floor dully. 

Alternatively looking at Rose and me, Dr. Liebre asked distantly, "Tanya, what are we going to do?" 

After, there was turmoil flashing, like accelerated shoots. Ian jumped out of bed and stood, freezing. He babbled that he knew how to provide first aid, and I had to literally push him into the bathroom. The orderlies were called urgently, and they tried to put Rose on the stretcher. Nurse Naomi ran into the room with them, and insistently suggested Dr. Liebre to make him coffee. Dr. Billy the Kid, meanwhile, had opened Ian's medical file and ordered to give him the prescribed medicine for ointment and food supplements to soften his stool. Before he left, he took ointment from the medicine cabinet, and instructed me to make sure that Ian take it right after his shower, and to return it to the cabinet afterward. But the long-asleep habits of my post-Soviet youth decided to reveal themselves at this moment, and I intended to give Ian the whole container for him to take home. 

While Rose was being taken to the emergency room, she had recovered enough to start claiming that she was okay and could continue working. But Naomi took her things and coat, and before leaving the room, asked if I knew who to tell about Miss Rothschild. I asked to deal with this without me. 

The room then became quiet. Dr. Liebre left after kissing me goodbye, as usual. He had taken Ian's sealed rape kit and bagged clothes to the Institute of Forensic Science. 

I hoped Ian was using this time to shower, and hung a towel over the doorknob. I rummaged through the closet with donated clothes, and pulled out the most decent pair of jeans, along with a sweatshirt with the logo of the medical college – probably one of the interns', who just forgot it. I even found new socks and a perfectly fitting jacket. I also remembered that there should be boots on one of the shelves. One of the assistant physicians planned to start hiking, but it did not work out. And if the size fitted, Ian would have warm waterproof boots instead of half a pair of Converse, which is much more suitable for the chilly Chicago winter. We just didn't have any men's underpants, and I could only offer Ian disposable women's panties. 

I was folding the clothes I had prepared for Ian in a neat pile when he came out of the shower, spanking with his bare feet. He wrapped a towel around his thighs, and threw a hospital gown over his hunched shoulders. His hair lost any remainder of fashionable styling, and now, his wet red hair was curly, and his eyelashes, which had previously appeared dark from wearing mascara, were very light, almost transparent. 

“I've prepared a nearly complete set for you,” I said, pointing to a stack of clothes.

"I was raped!" 

“I know,” I nodded. "I'm sorry." Apparently, this night was not easy for me either, and had tired me so much that all the protocol phrases flew out of my head. “I'm so damn sorry!"

"I was raped!" Ian repeated. "They raped me! Raped me!" he repeated over and over, while raising his voice. And then, he rushed toward me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and burst into tears, burying his face in my neck. He cried bitterly, just like children cry, flinched with every sob. And it was a good way for Ian to relieve his soul. And I couldn't pull away, even if it crossed all professional boundaries. 

"I don't want to be here!" Ian said, leaving the examination room fully dressed in the clothes I had picked up for him.

"We're almost done. You just have to consult an infectious disease doctor; he’ll give you preventive drugs. It is very important. You have already been harmed enough, I don’t want you to also get infected with any STD."

"Will it take a long time?" 

"I hope not." If I called the gynecologist, he would come up faster. Patients with suspected sexual assaults were prioritized. Gynecologists have been trained to provide the prophylactic treatment needed in such cases for patients of either gender. But remembering what antagonism was caused in Ian only by the gynecological chair, I decided to do without "lady’s doctor," as he probably would have put it. 

"I don't want to be here!" Ian repeated.

"Try to imagine you are not here. Did you hear about the Relaxing Safe Place Imagery exercise? Think about some dear place. A place where you have been before, or some visionary one. Do you have such a place?" 

Ian ran his splayed fingers through his still-damp hair.

“The army.” And I thought, what kind of life has this boy had for the army to seem like a safe place to him? “Well, I dreamed for a long time, I had prepared… When things were really bad, I said to myself, I just have to endure a little more, and I will go to serve…”

"You can still…" 

"I was already in the army!" 

“Aren't you supposed to be eighteen?” 

"Don't care! I left. Got sick of it!" Now, in any case, it was clear where his tattoo came from. And this was the only clear thing.

"Okay…" As much as I was curious, I did not ask anything more. Bad memories were not helpful at this moment. “There must be some other imaginary place for sure. Imagine all the small details: the colors, the sounds, the smells... It's calm there, and you're safe. Try to close your eyes to make it easier."

"And how can I open them after?" 

Dr. Asher, the infectious disease specialist, did not take long to arrive. He busily asked Ian about his general health and possible allergies, and after hearing about the vaccinations he had been given in the army, he gave him PEP in pills for the upcoming days, and wrote down a prescription and a referral to the clinic. He also recommended three types of antibiotics to prevent STDs, and had already reached into the closet for pills when I asked to replace them with injections, because the patient had previously vomited. He kindly agreed.  
When Nurse Naomi reappeared with several syringes, I suggested Ian that I come into the examination room with him, but without looking at me, he snapped: "I am not a kid!" and walked in alone.

"Can I go now?" Ian asked when we were alone again.

"Where?"

"Home!" Nervousness returned to him again. He was pulled like a string. He was about to tremble.

"Where do you live, Ian?" Although he did not sit, I didn’t hurry to get up from my chair, looking up at him.

"I'll go to the club!" 

“Do you understand that you cannot go there right now? Not after being questioned by the police.” 

"Fuck!" Ian scratched the top of his head. I invited him to sit down, pointing to that most comfortable chair. And he, obeying my gesture, nevertheless sank down on him.

"Where do you live, Ian? Where do you sleep? Over the last few days, at least?" 

"Well, after my shifts, someone always invites me... Every time, a new dude’s place... Sometimes, I also stay at the club." 

"Do you have a family?" 

"I have a boyfriend! But I can't go to him. His pregnant wife threatened to smash my head with a hammer!" And then, looking at me closely, squinting, he suddenly asked, "You have one too, don’t you? A hammer?" 

On the spot, Ian seemed to me not quite balanced, but now, it looked as he was starting ravings. 

"Should I have one?" 

"Well, you're Russian!" 

"Sorry, I still don't understand." 

"She's Russian! My boyfriend's wife. Frightening bitch actually! I really believed she would finish me off as soon as I fall asleep.” 

What I took for delirium turned out to be banal prejudices, which now would have been best answered with a joke.

"OK, I'm a fake Russian. I don't like buckwheat, I don't drink vodka, and I don't have a hammer.” I couldn’t explain to this boy that I was actually a Ukrainian who lived in Israel for many years. My joke worked; Ian laughed. He laughed, and threw his head back as wildly as when he had recently cried. 

"Well, you can't go to your boyfriend's place, but do you have other family? Parents?" I asked when Ian had finished laughing.

"Frank... well, he is my father, but I don't call him Dad. He's an alcoholic actually, and he's dying right now. And my older sister almost killed our youngest brother. So, I really don't want to go home!"

In all honesty, I would not want to return to such a place either. It became apparent which road had brought Ian to work at an adult nightclub. In the report, I will write about a low socio-economic situation and a dysfunctional family, and behind these official words lies the broken fate of a very young guy, whom the life-bitch did not regret, even without today's events. 

"Look, Ian, I can't discharge you until I know you have somewhere to go."

"What the fuck?" Ian snapped. 

But I ignored him, and continued, 

"Miss Rothschild chose the really wrong time to...” I hesitated for a second, searching for the right word for what happened to Rose.

"Crash down!" 

"...to lose her working capacity. She probably could find you a worthy place to stay. But I have an idea! You can stay in the hospital until the morning. And as soon as the working day begins, I will call Resilience. They will surely appoint someone to replace Ms. Rothschild. And I could also call several organizations that may well find accommodation for you. At least temporarily, until you clear your head and decide what to do next."

Needless to say Rose Rothschild got out of order in an unchristian hour. Namely her organization and she, by herself, should offer Ian a suitable plan of action. It was necessary to keep him from returning to the nightclub at all costs, because nobody would believe the victim voluntarily returned to the place where he was attacked. And if Ian’s rapist were to be found, then, in addition to criminal prosecution, Resilience would be able to obtain material compensation if everything was done correctly, and Ian would have trustworthiness. He wouldn't earn a living working in a nightclub if he had a safe place to stay, with a roof over his head and food in his plate. 

To my surprise, Ian did not bother arguing with me, and agreed to stay in the hospital until the morning. The senior physician on duty also agreed to sign the ward's hospitalization permit, especially when he heard about a Resilience voucher covering the entire cost.

“It’s very important to talk with someone about what happened,” I explained to Ian as we walked along the endless hospital corridors, took the elevator to the desired floor, and again further along the corridors. 

"We didn’t talk enough today, did we?" he raised his hand up, and folded his fingers with a pinch, squeezed and unclenched them, showing a talking bird. 

"I mean, with a specialist. With a psychotherapist …"

"I won't go to the shrink!" 

"Why not? It’s free." 

Ian raised one eyebrow, just like a grown-up. 

"I attached a list of therapists who work with Resilience along with the rest of your documents. You can contact anyone. But when you make an appointment, I advise you to ask if this therapist provides additional pro bono sessions in addition to paid ones."

"I see."

"Ian, this is important! You must learn to manage it, otherwise, it will begin to manage you!" 

"OK! OK! I see!" Ian pursed his lips, "OK…" 

Usually, we hospitalize women who are victims of sexual violence in the gynecological department. But there was a tiny corner room in the general care unit for Ian. 

"Take some rest!" I said, letting Ian inside. "There should be pajamas and towels on the nightstand. Breakfast is served around eight. I will come around this time to update you. Try to get some sleep." 

I was sure I heard Ian say "thank you" after I left, but when I turned around, he had already closed the door behind him.

I was the first customer at the pharmacy in the mall across from the hospital. I had to wait for the opening, nervously shifting from one foot to the other, in front of the closed glass doors. And now, I was carrying a toothbrush and a set of underpants for Ian. For some reason, it seemed to me irrationally important that he should receive new underpants before leaving our hospital. I already managed to leave a message to the Resilience bosses, and had spoken with the coordinator of the LGBTQ+ teens' hostel, and with the social worker of the minor prostitution survivors shelter. The last one was supported by the fact that the place was guarded, and if Ian wanted to avoid meeting the owners of the nightclub or its guests, they could not reach him. Both were imbued with Ian's story and promised to check all the possibilities to help him, and call back with an answer as soon as possible.  
Breakfast had not yet begun to be served when I arrived. There was still 15 minutes before they serve it. And although I promised Ian to come up later, I was in a hurry to talk to him, and tell him about the news, although not rich yet.  
When I opened the door, I found an empty room. Neither Ian himself, nor his belongings, nor an envelope with his documents was there. I was only greeted by a neat, military-style bed. And the bitter feeling that I had let him down, and had not kept my promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Hospital inside designation for a case of suspected sexual assault
> 
> [2] Medical optical or video device, which is a binocular and lighting device, mostly used for gynecological examinations 
> 
> [3] A medical instrument in the form of a bivalve rectal mirror with an illuminator


	2. 2017 - Epilogue

The smell of human grief gets particularly stronger in the hospital at night. 

An ambulance radio reported the young patient in critical condition. I ran through the hospital corridors to the emergency room to be on time for the arrival of the ambulance. If the patient was with an accompanying person, he should be immediately taken aside, so as not to interfere with the medical staff. I should talk to him and try to calm him down, to call other family members to maximize the circle of support. My shift was coming to an end, and I was seriously considering whether to call my colleague Vickie, who was supposed to replace me. 

An ambulance stretcher drove through the swinging doors of the emergency room. Among the flashing backs of the three EMTs who surrounded it, I saw a very young, deathly pale guy with frighteningly pointed features. There were no family members with him. 

“Upon arrival, the pupils were dilated. The pulse was not felt…” The red-haired EMT reported on the run to immediately inform the doctors. They listened to his explanations with that expression on their faces that did not bode any good news. “Standard protocol. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation... BVM... Adrenaline...”

Every doctor, nurse, and social worker has their own deeply engraved in memory cases that they encountered throughout their professional experience. And I returned, in my memories, to Ian Gallagher, again and again. He had such a special place among all other patients that I did not even use his case for the occasional case studies conducted by the social service, although it was instructive in many ways. 

I was confused when I first saw Ian wearing an EMT uniform. When you accidentally meet a former patient, Chicago no longer seems like such a big city. And I came across them all the time: in stores, in cafés, in bars, or just on the street. I never said "hello" first; it would be at least tactless, and would put the person in an extremely unpleasant position. Sometimes, I joke bitterly that when I was working at the snack-bar, clients would happily return to me, and now, none of the patients would like to see me again. 

Apparently, then, I looked at Ian a little longer than is considered polite, and he, intercepting my gaze, nodded slightly, like a colleague in the hospital. Now, Ian and I just nodded at each other every time we met, occasionally tossing a meaningless, "How are you?" 

After the very first meeting with Ian, I used to think about how his fate could have been. And now, I must admit, I was surprised by the profession he chose. I even wondered if it was him, conjuring up his image in the uniform. But meeting him again and again, I was already sure that it was Ian Gallagher in front of me. 

The young patient was taken to the emergency room, and a matte door closed behind him. Talking with each other, two EMTs moved toward the exit of the emergency room, back to their ambulance. Only Ian remained standing in front of the frosted door, turning away, and looking at it again. Noticing me standing on the opposite side of the corridor, he tried to smile, but didn't succeed.

“They won't save him,” Ian didn’t even ask.

"We don't know yet. But even such an outcome is possible." We usually say something like this to families of severe patients. I omitted the part about “doctors are doing their best” this time. Ian must have done his best as well.

"This is Fly! Did you know? This is Fly!"

Now, it became clear why Ian was reacting this badly. We all knew Fly. He was barely an adult, and lived on the street, earning money with prostitution, and of course, he was a drug addict. He visited our Sexual Assault Crisis Center seven times if my memory serves me well, and this is in addition to the countless hits in the emergency room with overdoses. 

"Let’s go!" 

Ian obediently followed me. He should not be left alone with the burden of responsibility for a patient's unsaved life. I wanted to take Ian to a quiet, peaceful place, but only when I approached the room with the large number "four" on the door, I realized that I had chosen the most inappropriate place of all. However, starting to rush now in search of a new place would be completely awkward. Moreover, there was no other suitable place in the emergency room, and dragging Ian through the hospital floor to the main office of social services would not have been at all right. 

"Come in!" I said, turning on the light. "Would you like some coffee?" 

"You only have soluble? Still no capsules for the coffee machine?" 

Out of the corner of my mind, I noted how amazingly Ian still remembered about the lack of capsules. But I didn't react. I was focused on the urgent need to talk to the emergency room. 

"The young patient in the intensive care unit's name is Isaac Chaim Smotrich," I said to the head nurse Althea, who answered me. "Look in the computer system, there are several social reports about him. In short, the patient has long been out of touch with his family, who lives far outside of Chicago. I think the best thing to do would be to involve the police. But Vickie will make her decision. She starts her shift in half an hour."

“I didn't even know that it was his name.” This time, Ian didn’t sit in the comfortable patient armchair. He perched on the edge of a chair, and turned his back to the kitchenette and that very ugly picture. "And his family doesn't live in Chicago. I didn’t know he even had a family... Do you know where they are?”

“I know that his father lives in Brooklyn." Of course, there was medical confidentiality, but Ian was now also a health worker. "We tried to contact him during one of Fly’s visits here," the poor guy chose this name by himself, and I continued to call him this way, “but he seems to be very religious, and has no modern means of communication. A colleague from the Department of Children and Family Service told me Fly ran away from home after his mother died. And when he was found, he refused to return. He was placed with a foster family, but he escaped from there also. I heard he lived in Times Square, but apparently feared that he could be found again and returned home, and somehow managed to get to Chicago. The rest, you know…” 

"He's not the first one…" Ian swallowed. "Fly is not the first one I couldn't save." his Adam's apple twitched again under his clean-shaven fair skin, "but I could be in his place!" Ian leaned forward, hands on the tabletop. "I remember how I got here. I never told you, but I remember."

I was stunned by his words. Although, naturally, Ian could not forget his visit to our hospital at that time, he never clearly showed that he remember me. I was even almost certain that he did not recognize me. Although unlike him, who has noticeably matured, I have not changed much; even my hairstyle remained the same. Truly said my hairstyle changed, but having made a full circle, it returned to its previous appearance.  
Sometimes, remembering Ian, I imagined what I would say to him if I happened to meet with him again. I couldn't shake off that feeling that I had let him down then.

"I scolded myself then! I failed to observe, I had done something wrong." I didn’t want to make Ian feel guilty in any way, I just wanted to tell him how damn sorry I was that I couldn’t do enough to get him out of the hospital door into a slightly better reality than the one from which he came. 

"I really appreciate!" Ian answered me. "Everything you did! Both you and that handsome doctor. Especially you. Not a lot of people were so kind to me, especially then.” 

Perhaps this was for that special feeling that it was worth working without knowing neither nights nor days off, trying to help people in the most difficult moments of their lives, and sometimes serve as a lightning rod for their most difficult emotions. Obviously, Ian was now doing the same thing. 

"I appreciate what you appreciate!" Ian blinked and nodded while he pursed his lips, so familiarly. 

It was no longer appropriate to return to our conversation about Fly. And in all honesty, Ian interested me more. 

"I was worried about you, you know, then. I was checking the news, I was waiting and thinking, 'maybe I'll see that that club was closed by the police!'" 

"Yes, the club was really a piece of shit! But I had a really dark period. If there were no club, I would have gone to work on the street, like Fly. And there was food after every shift, I could take a shower, and sometimes even sleep in the backroom…"

"It is still damn wrong…"

"You know what is damn wrong? Fly’s death today!" Ian took a deep breath.

Fly's death made me feel bitter too. But still, I was happy for Ian, that he not only did not sink when he was in Fly's place, but also managed to get out of the pit, get a commendable profession, and a decent job. And although I had no merit for this, I felt an exciting pride for Ian.

"The Jews have a beautiful wish, 'Will we always be among those who provide assistance, and not among those in need.' I'm glad we're on the same side." In response, Ian pulled my hand across the table, and I reached out and squeezed his fingers.

A distorted female voice then came from the suddenly crackling radio, “Ian? Ian! Where are you? Our shift is ending soon! We want to go!" 

"I'm giving the social worker some data about the patient,” Ian replied, pressing the radio button. "Drive without me. I will not go back to the station. After, I'll note that I finished my shift here." 

“I'm finishing up too,” I said, still not letting go of his hand. "Do you want to get breakfast? In the mall across the street, there is a cool café, and breakfast is served 24 hours a day." 

"I would like to!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I'll be grateful for kudos, comments and feedback!  
> And I'll really appreciate if you could give kudos to original work [Party Boys Don't Get Hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301111/chapters/66703195)


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